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Sunday, September 11, 2005

Quick! To the BatCave!

So, last night Evan and I were settled in downstairs watching Law & Order, completely catatonic on the couch. I was wrapped up in my blanket, and he was sprawled out, feet up. The cicadas, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, are particularly bad around here, since we are in the jungle and all. Anyway, I've pretty much learned to tune out their hapless flights into the sliding glass door, and sibsequent sounds of frantically flapping wings as they trickle to the ground after said impact.

But last night I heard the distinct thud and wing flap from inside the God damned fire place. I nudged Evan to go get the stupid bug out, and toss it out the back door. He reluctantly got up, and opened our glass doors to the fireplace. But, how curious! There was nothing inside. He shrugged, and pulled the chains to close the doors and returned to his loafing position.

Just as the defense was making it's case for a clearly guilty S.O.B., this...this...this thing came hurdling itself at the TV. My first thought was wtf mate, that's the biggest cicada yet! When, hark! It wasn't a cicada! It was a bat!

And then there were two.

Two bats.

Flying in circles around the living room, flirting dangerously close with the ceiling fan. Evan, the brave soul that he is, exclaimed "What the fuck? I hate those things!" and promptly locked himself in the bathroom, where he so kindly yelled through the locked door "Babe, are you okay? You should get out of there."

I, of course, found the entire situation to be hysterical. My husband hiding in the bathroom, two bats swooping and flying around my house, and I had nothing to do but lay there like a slug and giggle.

I eventually convinced Evan to come out of the bathroom, and go up the steps and get himself a blanket or something, which he did. He emerged from his voyage to the guest room donning a yellow, pink and blue comforter, with flowers and butterflies on it -- very, very manly. I directed him to open up the sliding glass door and turn the light above it off, hoping the bats would fly into the darkness and outside. Meanwhile, I scooted up the steps to call my dad, to see exactly how one rids one's house of a bat parade.

My father answered the phone, half asleep, groggy, and listened to my wildly tell my tale of the bat invasion. And then he laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

He laughed so hard he had to set the phone down on the table. By the time he had come back, I was growing rather impatient, as I had to stand outside to use the cell phone**, and I was chilly in my PJ's. He said to get a towel, and toss it over the bat, and then bundle the whole package up, and flick it out the door. I nodded in agreement. This did, in fact, seem logical.

It seemed logical until we got downstairs with a towel and attempted to catch the bats. Bats, you see, are quick little bastards. And thrown towels are certainly less than graceful. Our efforts were fruitless, and in the end, we used Evans manly comforter covering and tacked it to the ceiling to block the bats from going up the stairs, and then we waited.

Eventually, (hopefully) the bats flew out the back door. There is no sign of them today.

Yet.

**in case I haven't told you, Costa Drive is where cell phone calls go to die. If you have ever wondered what happened to your dropped call, it's here. Hovering somewhere around my house. I make no claims to the whereabouts of the socks that get lost in the dryer though***